Forged in Steel
by findingyouagain
Summary: CANCELLED—SORRY. "Stop kicking my heart around, it's beating just for you." After waking up in the present day, Steve Rogers has to come to terms with the loved ones he has lost & left behind. Meanwhile, HYDRA locates a new target for the Winter Soldier and unfreezes an old asset, "STEEL".
1. Prologue

**Summary:** After waking up in the present day, Steve Rogers has to come to terms with the loved ones he has lost and left behind. Meanwhile, HYDRA locates a new target for the Winter Soldier and unfreezes an old asset, _STEEL._

 **Pairing** : Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes. Polyamorous.

 **Warnings** : Angst ? Bisexual polyamourous relationship. Idk man, but if you don't wanna cry lots of tears then maybe don't read this.

 **Word Count** : 2370.

 **Concept** : Steve wakes up in present-day USA at the end of Captain America: The First Avenger, alone and confused after having crashed into the Arctic Ocean in the 1940s. Having already lost Bucky on the train, he now has to deal with having also lost the Reader to time. Meanwhile, after the Battle of New York, HYDRA defrosts the asset known as _STEEL_ , an inhuman with the ability of mental/astral projection. HYDRA also continues the use of the Winter Soldier, an assassin who is a master of stealth. When the Winter Soldier comes to take out Nick Fury, HYDRA begins to reveal itself from underneath SHIELD's defenses, and Steve has to come to terms with his past coming back to haunt him in new ways and decide what's more important to him: being Captain America or saving the people he loves.

 **Quick Author's Note** : This is my first reader insert series, so bear with me as this is not my usual writing style—although, I hope it doesn't read that way. I'm currently uploading it on my Tumblr (ashtynwrites) as well, so if you want to check it out over there, feel free to! There'll be aesthetic edits and extra content on there to go along with the story. Also, some might notice the Reader will bear some characteristics similar (as well as the same abilities) as one of my MCU OCs, and that's simply because I'm very familiar with said character and have fleshed out her powers to the extent that she's easily insertable into this storyline—On a different note, I'm swamped with school work this semester, so updates will be slow, but I'll try to get out at least one chapter a week. I've got the first 13 of these planned out already, however.

* * *

 **Prologue.**

 _Cold_. It's the first thing that pushes its way to the front of Steve's mind, fighting through the haze and white noise that seem to wrap around him in foggy blanket. _Cold_. The thought repeats itself, and he lets it, allows the thought to circle around and around and around his head until it sinks deep into his bones, until he has finally registered the thought and understood why it kept popping up. _Cold_. He _should_ be cold.

But he's not.

As the realization takes ahold of the man, some of the fog around him seems to dissipate, and the white noise morphs into indistinct chatter, becoming clearer as the seconds passed by, but it manages to hold its static sound, muffling what Steve was beginning to realize was a man's voice.

"—a curve ball, high and outside, for ball one," breaks through the haze as Steve blinks softly, letting his eyes slowly adjust to the warm light of the room. He's lying on a bed, the mattress beneath him softer than the ones he's accustomed to. There's a white ceiling above him, connected to which are three rectangular blades of a fan, spinning at a monotonous speed. He watches it for a second before his ears pick up the man's voice again. _The radio._ "—this fellow's capable of making it a brand-new game again. Just absolutely gorgeous day here at Ebbets Field."

He squints, blue eyes narrowing, and he glances further around the room. The upper half of the walls are painted a starchy white; while the lower half mimics a lighter shade of army green. Next to the bed, a small white wooden nightstand stood with a dim lamp and a pitcher of water resting on its surface.

"But the Dodgers have three men on," the sports caster continues over the radio as Steve slowly begins to sit up, pressing his hands into the soft mattress, noticing how they sank into the sheets. First one leg, then two over the side of the bed. Inhaling deeply, he blinks again, trying to clear his mind of the last of the fog. "—return the favor? Pete leans in. Here's the pitch. Swung on. A line to the right, and it gets past Rizzo—"

Cars honking outside interrupt the sports caster, and Steve's quick to turn his head to the window behind him. He's in the city then…How'd he get into the city? And which city is he in? An American city, it is to be assumed, based on the Dodgers baseball game playing over the radio, but Steve Rogers isn't one to assume anything.

Especially not when his last memory was crashing a plane into the Arctic Ocean.

* * *

 _"Come in, this is Captain Rogers. Do you read me?" Steve called through the radio, hoping, praying someone would pick up._

 _"Captain Rogers," Morita's voice rang loud and clear through the speakers of the Valkyrie. "what is your—" But it was a moment later that the private was interrupted by a familiar female voice._

 _"Steve, is that you? Are you alright?" you asked, worry lacing every word that came out of your mouth. He could picture it: your face scrunched up in concern, pearly white teeth digging into the corner of your bottom lip. You had probably even shoved Morita out of the way to get closer to the radio. You were always worried about something. Not that he could fault you on the matter. He sure gave you plenty to worry about, and now wasn't going to be any better._

 _Instinctively, he called out your name before announcing the lighter news as he continued to fiddle with the buttons. None of them seemed to be doing anything of significance, and his resolution sank further into his gut. "Schmidt's dead."_

 _"What about the plane?"_

 _A pause. He flicked a controller back and forth. Nothing. "—That's a little bit tougher to explain."_

 _There was another pause, this time on your end, which he deduced was you glancing back for advice from Morita, Peggy, and Colonel Phillips, the latter two he could only assume, given they had been the last people he had seen you with before he had jumped aboard the Valkyrie. "Give us your coordinates, we'll find you a safe landing site."_

 _He glanced down at the plane's dashboard, watching as the still very armed bombs blinked on the screen. He sighed, tone turning apologetic. "There's not going to be a safe landing, doll. But I can try and force it down."_

 _You were resolute, it seemed, however. "I'll—I'll get Howard on the line. He'll know what to do."_

 _"There's not enough time. This thing's moving too fast, and it's heading for New York." He shook his head. No matter how much he wished those words weren't true, he knew that this was the reality. He didn't have time to wait for Stark or anyone to come stop the plane from crashing. He had to do it himself. It felt like forever before he spoke again, but his words were determined. "I gotta put her in the water."_

 _"Please, don't do this." Steve could hear the panic in your voice, could almost feel it in his bones. "You don't get to leave me. Not after—" A shaky sigh came through the speakers, and he knew it was you holding back a sob. "We—we have time. We can work it out."_

 _"Right now, I'm in the middle of nowhere. If I wait any longer a lot of people are gonna die." He stared at the bright sky in front of him, mulling over his next words, possibly his last words to you. "Doll, this is my choice."_

 _Silence. The comms filled with the softest static as Steve closed his eyes. One hand dug through his pocket before pulling out a locket. It had been a gift to him from your mother, given to the soldier the day of Sarah Roger's funeral: a gift to remind him of the people who loved him that were still with him. Your mothers had been close friends, living next to each other almost all of their lives. That was how you and Steve had met, through them._

 _He opened the heart, a soft but sad smile crossing his features as a picture of you appeared on the left. His thumb traced over your face before his blue eyes glanced at the picture of the man on the right, and he exhaled softly._

Til the end of the line.

 _Closing the locket, he pulled it over his neck. He gripped the handles of the Valkyrie and pushed them as far forward as they could go, and the plane began plunging downwards towards the ocean. He could feel the plane shake underneath him as it protested, but it continued down. A moment later, he called out your name, quiet but inquisitive, seeking comfort in your voice._

 _"I'm here," you responded immediately. "I'm always gonna be here."_

 _"I'm gonna need a rain check on that dance."_

 _Another shaky sigh, this one quieter than before. Acceptance had began to sink in, and he could picture you wiping away the tears forming in your eyes. He wished he was there to wipe away the tears for you, or better, him with you so there was no reason for your tears to begin with. "Alright…a week, next Saturday, at the Stork Club."_

 _"You got it," he promised. You both knew he wouldn't be able to keep it, but he hoped the words gave you some reassurance, a happy dream to fill the silence that was soon to come._

 _"Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late. Understood?"_

 _"You know, I still don't know how to dance. You and—We never got around to teaching me." The plane rattled, shaking harder and louder as it edged closer and closer to the Arctic bank._

 _You let out a sad laugh, finally allowing a sob to break through. "I'll show you how. Just be there."_

 _"We'll have the band play somethin' slow," he replied, watching as ice came into full view. Any moment now. "I'd hate to step on your—" The line went to static, and everything went black._

* * *

"Three runs will score." Steve turned his attention back to the radio, a frown solidifying on his face. "Reiser heads to third. Durocher's going to wave him in. Here comes the relay, but they won't get him—" The clicking of a door handle can be heard, and the soldier's head turns sharply to the entrance, where a young woman roughly his age walks in, wearing what appears to be a typical professional outfit for a woman in the 40s.

"Good morning." She glances at her watch. "Or should I say, afternoon?"

He continues to frown, blue eyes scrunching in thought as he eyes her up, the smallest of details clicking into place but falling out of others. The skirt's the right length, and the knot keeping the tie together is proper, but her hair's not pinned up for the work environment, and the tie's much too wide—reminds him of his own ties, his father's ties that his mother had given him. Not to mention the shape of the woman's bra. Even if the world thought him to be inexperienced, he remembers what the shape of a woman's bra, your bra looked like through a plain white work-shirt.

"Where am I?" he asks, fighting the accusatory tone clinging to his words.

The woman tilts her head. "You're in a recovery room in New York City."

Her words make him want to relax. That's the answer he wants, but he knows in his gut it's not true. He wants it to be, though, wants so badly for him to be home and for you to be somewhere behind the door just waiting for him to wake up.

The sports announcer continues over the radio: "The Dodgers take the lead, 8-4. Oh, Dodgers! Everyone is on their feet. What a game we have here today, folks. What a game indeed."

His eyes narrow even further. If the inconsistencies in the woman's clothing aren't evidence enough, the game alone surely is. "Where am I really?"

She lets out a nervous laugh. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"The game," he explains as the radio remains on in the background, "it's from May, 1941. I know, 'cause I was there." He watches as her smile fades and a look of panic takes home in her eyes. He stands up, striding forward with determination. Liars. He always hated liars.

"Now I'm going to ask you again: where am I?"

"Captain Rogers—" she responds in a futile attempt to subdue him with her words.

"Who are you?" His voice rises, but before the woman can answer, two men, both dressed in an all-black uniform, walk through the door. Instinctively, the soldier steps back and takes a split-second to glance between the two and go through his options. Only one sticks out.

The two men fly through the wall, and Steve hurdles his way through the new opening, pausing briefly once out of the room to orient himself. He's in a warehouse of sorts, he concludes, but as the woman shouts his name, yelling for him to wait, he begins to run, barreling out the door and into a wide and populated hallway. Men and women alike, all dressed in business suits turn to stare at him as the woman's voice from before plays over a PA-system. A couple of the business men— _agents?_ —attempt to stop him, but Steve just pushes through, knocking each one that gets in his way to the ground.

Finally, he finds his way outside, running headfirst into the street. He doesn't stop running though. Feet pounding against the asphalt, he runs alongside traffic, weaving between cars until he once again find himself surround by people, civilians this time. He stops in the middle, but none of them pay him any attention as he spins around in confusion…in a bit of awe. His breathing's heavy, but the sound of the cars and people around him are louder. The electronic billboards flash picture after picture, moving like a movie, all in living, breathing color.

Is this…could this really be Times Square?

"At ease, Soldier," a deep man's voice rings out over the noise, and Steve turns to find himself being surround by black SUVs. A man with an eyepatch walks towards him as the other agents try to disperse and hold back the crowd of now curious civilians. Stopping in front of Steve, he shrugs. "Look, I'm sorry about that little show back there, but…we thought it best to break it to you slowly."

"Break what?" He breathes heavily, dreading the man's response.

"You've been asleep, Cap." A short pause, and somewhere, deep down inside him, he knows it's been for too long. He doesn't know how, but he knows. "For almost seventy years."

 _Seventy years._

He looks around, letting the words sink in, trying not to drown in the shock, in the sadness. _Seventy years. He's been asleep for seventy years._

"You gonna be okay?" the man asks, and somehow, Steve manages a nod, fingers moving to grasp the locket around his neck.

"Yeah…Yeah, I just…I had a date."

* * *

 _You shiver as you pull your jacket closer to you, staring out through the window at the icy ocean outside. One of the engineers calls out, and you feel more than see Howard turn next to you to look back at the man. He walks away, but you stay put, eyes focused on the frozen wasteland. Somewhere, somewhere out there is Steve._

 _"Take us to the next grid point," Howard orders, and you finally turn around and join them at the screen. You watch as the submarine on the screen grabs at the glowing cube. The Tesseract._

 _The engineer protests. "But there's not a trace of wreckage, and the energy signature stops here."_

 _Howard glances back at you, and you manage to nod in response. "Just keep looking," he speaks again before pulling you back to the window. He lowers his voice, allowing for at least the semblance of privacy on the small ship. "We'll make sure he shows up for that date, sweetheart."_


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One: Nick Fury's Cabin**

The cabin is quiet as Steve stands in the small kitchen, blue eyes trained on the view outside of the window. It's too early for the sun to be shining through, but the moon reflects off the lake, penetrating the blanket of darkness of the early morning. He's not sure exactly what time it is; although, he has a feeling it's encroaching close to four A.M. He's been awake for at least an hour already.

He couldn't sleep.

If asked, the blonde would probably make some quip about having already slept for seventy years, but his time in the ice has nothing to do with his sleep issues, and yet everything to do with them, nonetheless. It's been a couple of weeks since he woke up in New York City, and he hasn't gotten a full night of sleep since. His mind keeps running, faster and faster the harder he tries to close his eyes and relax. Memories constantly pull and tug at his mind, taunting him of the world he can no longer go back to and the people he no longer has. Bits and pieces of the war find home in his thoughts, and he has to keep reminding himself that the war is over—the Allies had won, and he no longer has to prove himself, no longer has to fight. The only enemies he has now are time and his thoughts.

Birds begin chirping outside, and Steve lets out a soft sigh. Nick Fury's cabin is quiet and isolated, secluded in a small forest and free of the humming and buzzing of the city, but Steve's not sure that's what he needs right now: the quiet. It's like giving his thoughts a megaphone, allowing them to be louder than everything around him. At least in the city, he could drown them out in the noises of the people and the cars, but there, the chances of being overwhelmed by everything that's different is higher. There, the visual reminders that he is no longer home in his own time, you are not here with him, and he will never see you and Bucky again are loud and clear.

His hand picks at the locket around his neck.

The bacon in the pan in front of him starts to sizzle, and he grabs a pair of tongs and begins to flip some of the pieces of pork over. The greasy smell brings him back to early Sunday mornings in Brooklyn at your apartment: Sarah and your mothers—yes, _your mothers_ , although to the outside world one of them was known as your _aunt_ , because even though your family and the Rogers clan had been more progressive that didn't mean the rest of your neighborhood was—in the kitchen, cooking pancakes and bacon before church, while you and Steve picked through the newspapers for the comics. Eventually, Bucky had joined in the ranks of the Sunday morning breakfast tradition, but that hadn't been until one fateful afternoon at school.

* * *

 _You were stuck inside the school building, finishing up a test you had missed the day before. You had been out sick, just a small case of the stomach flu, but Steve hadn't had seen you since you had been sent home by the school's nurse. His mom had kept him from going over to visit you, not wanting to chance him getting sick. His immune system was not as strong as yours. So, there he sat outside, waiting for you to finish your test, excited for the chance to catch up on the walk back home._

 _It was there, flipping through a handful of baseball cards on the playground swing, that he met Bucky Barnes._

 _But not before trouble called his name first._

" _Hey, Steve!"_

 _The short and scrappy blonde looked up from the deck in his hand to find a couple of boys from his class walking towards him. Steve was a friendly boy, but he still had a tough time making friends. Your friendship had been a guarantee, given the friendship between your mothers and the closeness of age between the two of you, and there was a couple of other boys in his class that he talked to at school but not many others. He wasn't sure if it was just because he wasn't around as often as the other children, frequently home sick for this and that, or if it was because he was so small and easy to pick on. He figured that latter was more likely._

" _Hey, Tommy, Frank," he greeted back. His smile was uneasy, and he fiddled with the cards in his hands. Tommy and Frank definitely weren't his friends. They were always getting in trouble at school, whether for simply making a ruckus in the classroom or being caught picking on some of the kids in the younger grades. As he glanced down at his watch, Steve was pretty sure that's why they were still hanging around school this late in the afternoon. Detention usually let out around this time._

" _Whatcha still doing here?" Tommy asked, arms folded as he and Frank stood in front of Steve, who stayed put on the swing. The two seemed to loom over him, intimidating. They weren't overtly tall for their age, but Steve was so short, and given he was sitting down, he seemed even smaller._

" _Waiting on a friend."_

" _What friend?" Frank mocked. He titled his head as if in thought before speaking again. "Oh, you mean_ your littlegirlfriend _?"_

" _She's not my girlfriend." Steve defended. You two were_ not _dating. You were best friends, you hung out all the time because you were neighbors and your mothers were best friends. You were both interested in baseball and drawing, among other things. You were best friends, but you were not dating._

 _The both of you were too young to be dating anyway._

 _The two boys laughed before rolling their eyes. "You sure spend a lot of time around her for her to not be your girlfriend."_

 _Steve didn't respond and stood up from the swing and made to walk away, back towards the school building. He'd wait for you in the library instead. The librarian was nice, and she always had baked goodies left over from her lunch to share with the kids who stayed late to read. He'd bid his time there until you finished your test, and he could walk you home._

" _Hey, wait! We ain't done talking with you yet," Tommy yelled out, but Steve kept walking. He felt a hand grab his shoulder and turn him around, the two boys standing in front of him once again._

" _Well, I am."_

" _No, you're not." Frank pushed at Steve's shoulder, not a hard shove but enough to grab his attention. "See, you've got two options here. You can keep talking to us or you can give us your leftover lunch money and we'll leave you alone to wait on your little girlfriend."_

" _She's not my—"_

 _Tommy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever—look, you gonna pay or not?"_

 _Steve's left hand clenched around his baseball cards, and he shook his head. "No."_

" _No?" Frank seemed a bit shocked at Steve's response. Who was this little guy to say no to him?_

" _No." Steve's words came out stronger this time as he got ready for the consequences of turning down the boys' offer, knowing sooner or later one of them was gonna start throwing punches. Two against one definitely wasn't fair, but neither was Frank and Tommy picking on someone so much smaller than them._

 _He just hoped you still packed a first aid kit in your backpack._

 _Tommy threw the first punch, hitting Steve in the stomach, and the smaller boy stumbled back before dropping his baseball cards onto the grassy ground. He curled his fingers into his palms, thumb sticking out. He had learnt the hard way once before to not keep his thumb inside his palm when throwing a punch. Steve's fist landed on Tommy's shoulder, but there wasn't much strength behind it, and the other boy let out a laugh._

 _Frank went next and managed to catch Steve right on the cheek, and Steve was about ready to throw another punch but stopped short when he saw Tommy being shoved into Frank by another boy, one taller than the both of them. Steve recognized him as one of boys in the grade above him._

" _Get out of here, punks!" he yelled at the boys, shoving at them once more. He was stronger and older, and Frank and Tommy didn't need to be told twice before scampering off._

 _Steve relaxed, uncurling his hands and letting out a soft sigh of relief._

" _Here," the older boy said as he picked up the fallen baseball cards off the ground and handed them to Steve. "You dropped these."_

" _Thanks," he mumbled. He fiddled with the deck, straightening the cards before shoving them into his jacket pocket._

" _No problem." The older boy looked Steve up in down as if inspecting for any serious injuries. There wasn't much more than a blossoming bruise on his cheek. "Sorry about those kids. They're a bunch of jerks."_

" _I'm used to it."_

" _You shouldn't be." The older boy sighed before stretching out his hand. "I'm Bucky."_

" _S—"_

" _Steve!" you yelled, running out of the building as fast as your feet could manage, stumbling a bit over the school steps. Your skirt billowed in the wind as you got closer to the playground where Steve and Bucky stood. When you finally managed to reach them, you were huffing but smiling all the same. "Sorry, I took so long. Mrs. Fisher made me wait until she finished grading the test before I could go, but I got an A, so I guess I can't complain—who's this?" you asked, as if only realizing the presence of the other boy. "And what happened to your cheek?"_

" _Long story," Steve muttered before gesturing towards Bucky. "This is Bucky."_

 _You smiled at the dark-haired boy, waving slightly with one hand as you introduced yourself, before turning back to Steve. "Did you get into a fight again?"_

" _Again?" Bucky asked, and you simply nodded._

" _He's always getting into fights. So often that I started carrying around a first aid kit to patch him up afterwards. Not that it's entirely his fault, but he could back down at least once in a while."_

 _Steve scoffed, although he couldn't quite deny your accusations. "I don't like bullies," he defended._

" _Well, they sure seem to like you." You turned back to Bucky. "Um—we were going to stop by the newsstand on the way back home to look at the comics. You're welcome to tag along if you want."_

 _The brunette seemed surprised by your invitation, but a quick smile formed on his face. "Sure, why not?"_

* * *

The popping of the bacon in the grease brings Steve back to the kitchen, and he grabs a plate, folding a couple of paper towels on top of it before using the tongs to pick up each piece of bacon and lay them out on the plate. The birds aren't singing anymore and the grease is quieting down as it cools off, and Steve is back in the silence once again.


End file.
